


Good Things

by Vesta (Biggelois)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Intoxication, M/M, PWP, Pining Sam, Wincest.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biggelois/pseuds/Vesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is drunk. Sam discovers 'things'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is me moving my old stuff from LJ over here.  
> Tags and warnings are not cooperating with me, so do beware that this is Wincest. Also note that there is inebriation here, massive such.  
> Feedback: yes please, if you would be so kind

Walls. Walls are good. The thought makes its blurry fussy way through Sam's head, slithering around in cloudy cottony stripes They are..what's the word?…solid. Can lean on them. Sam does exactly that. He's resting his cheek against the cool bricks, absently petting the rough surface. Nice and cool, nice for his too-hot face.

Damn if he remembered the way from the motel to the bar being this long. He's sure it wasn't on the way there, had been much shorter then. Now on the other hand he's so very grateful for the wall. Sidewalk would have hit him in the face otherwise. 

The wall lasts almost all the way back. He stumbles a few steps before he finds a fence. Fences are good, especially the wooden kind. Can lean on that too. Wood. Lots of meaning to that word. Sam's anchors himself with one hand gripping the fence and adjusts himself in his jeans. Hard. That he his. Wood. Lots. He giggles a little, wood, that is funny. Could be that girl who had been sitting on him the last while before he left. She had wriggled something fierce, rubbing around and pushing her tits in his face. She had smelled nice. He hadn't been in the condition to appreciate them fully though, what with the world spinning like this. How much had he had to drink anyway? And what? 

Sam stops for a moment and tries to regain his balance. Like a miracle he has managed to make it to the motel. He actually thinks that he can see their door. At least the car is parked right there. Oh, the car. He pets the car, cars are good. This car is particularly good. Lets him sit in it and listen to music, even if it's shitty music, and look at Dean when he's driving and Sam's almost certain that Dean never notices his looks. He's very certain that Dean doesn't know what Sam is thinking there in the car, sitting close and pretending to look through the window. Sam wouldn't be alive if Dean knew. But the car is good, it can keep a secret.

Railings are good. Steps are not. Three sorry, sad little steps up and the last one ambushes Sam, tipping him over. The wooden landing, not good wood this time, smacks his elbows but at least it doesn't get to his face. Sam rolls over on his back and smiles triumphantly. That is also a good thing: avoid being hit in the face. 

He lies there, trying to get his shit together but fails so totally that he has to laugh at himself. His head is buzzing and the world as he knows it has tilted at an angle he has never seen before. But he feels good. Really good. Warm, the night is warm, he's decently comfortable on his back and he can still feel the heat from the tits he had squeezed not long ago. There's a problem with those. He usually doesn't squeeze tits and get hard from it. Sam smiles at no one and the night sky. They had been nice though. Not good, like Dean's chest would feel if he ever got is hands there, but nice. He has to adjust himself again, they had been really soft and all. The stars are nice too. But he should get inside and get to bed.

Keys. Keys are good for opening doors. He knows he has one somewhere. In a pocket. Sam pats clumsily over his jeans and yeah, there they are. Aiming very carefully, he jams his hand down his pocket, misses completely and ends up with his hand in his jeans instead. In his boxers. Around his still very hard cock. That feels incredibly good. Sam sighs, marvelling over all the good things he are discovering and takes a firmer hold. This is real good, why the hell hasn't he done this before? 

There's not enough room in his pants to seriously wank, but a little grab and hold is totally ok too. The stars are smiling back at him, winking and dancing. There must be a lot of shooting stars, they are making bright streaks across the cloudless sky. Seriously, he's in no hurry to get in. Dean's probably pissed already and will get loud on Sam's ass when he walks in leaning six sheets to the wind. He should just spend the night there on the shout-free landing. Sam tries to get his head in order, sort his thoughts, there is something he needs to remember. But the cloudy cottony stripes won't let him. So, lie still. 

"Sam? The hell? Are you hurt?"

Dean's faces hover above him, two, three, upside-down. No, two. Sam tries to focus but Dean keeps spinning. He tilts his head to the side and sees feet. Bare feet. Dean's feet. Pretty feet. They are moving too. Dean is never barefoot unless he's undressed. Dean is only wearing boxers and that is also a good thing. Sam squints and reaches for the foot closest to him. To his surprise he connects with warm skin on the first try. Now, there, he thinks, that is really good. Solid, like the wall, stops him from falling off the ground. Dean is still saying things but Sam's not listening. He knew already that Dean would shout at him so why bother? The shouting has something to do with the thing he has to remember, why he is so totally shitfaced and feeling so good right now. Can't be bad then. Sam grins, pleased with his spectacular ability to draw conclusions. 

He aims his smile at Dean and manages to get him into focus. Dean does not look happy. That is a shame, so Sam decides to share his happiness.

"I got boobs tonight." He knows he's slurring but not bad enough for Dean to have such a thundercloud for a face all of a sudden. 

"I really did," he tries. "Big and soft and ...big." He nods solemnly. "Really big. Squeezed them." He pulls his hand from his jeans and groans when he rubs his cock in the process. He holds it up, the other still firmly around Dean's ankle, and curls his fingers. "Like this!" Sam beams. He knows that he can score points with that. 

To his surprise he doesn't. Since his brain is still working on finishing its drinks, he doesn't catch up until he's back on his feet being dragged towards their room. His brain puts the last glass back on the table and Sam realises that Dean is more than pissed. He is redhot, bloodlust crazy angry. That is so hot it makes Sam weak, weaker, in the knees. And he still can't remember what he's forgotten.

The green shabby carpet does hit him in the face when Dean lets got of him inside the door. Sam pets it, he can't be mad at anything tonight. But lying on the floor isn't that good so he gets up on hands and knees and aims for the bed. Or more like it for Dean's feet. They are planted firmly on the carpet, apart, long legs all they way up. Sam cranes his neck to see more and falls over again, landing with his cheek pressed to the top of the right one. Bony. But not. Sam's brain, retired, has left command to the reptile brain. Reptiles have long tongues. Sam's tongue works on its own and licks a wet stripe over Dean's foot. Dean has such pretty feet. Who would've known that? He licks again, nuzzles against the ankle. Feels…right, touching Dean like this. He does it again and yelps when the ground disappears from under him.

With his brain still at the bar, not helpful at all, and with his good mood rapidly running away, Sam finds himself tossed on the bed. What the hell is it with Dean and all this pushing and shoving? Dean is cursing. Loudly. Manhandling Sam around like he's a rag doll, yanking his clothes off. Now we're seriously talking, Sam thinks, and gets a little happier again. But the slap that lands on his thigh and the growled "Shut the fuck up!" tells him that he probably said that aloud. 

Dean has gotten his clothes off, only boxers remaining, and that is another good thing. The very bad thing is that Dean is if possible even angrier, so angry that is actually begins to register as an 'Oh shit! He's mad' coil of worry in Sam's belly. The other bad thing is his cock. He's still hard, but it's kinda numb. There will be no rest for poor Sammy tonight and Dean swats him on the head this time. 

"Could you just keep your blabbering drunk trap shut? We'll talk about this tomorrow." There is something in Dean's voice that is not right, he's not shouting, he sounds disappointed 

Sam looks up at him. What was he supposed to remember? It tickles in the back of his head, hiding just out off reach. He takes a deep breath, tries to concentrate. Can't though, Dean is still hovering above him and the bed is awfully comfy. Dean sure is pretty, even when he's this mad, makes Sam lose his hard-won train of thought. What was it now? 

"My cock is numb, Dean." Sam can hear the whine in his voice but so? He's hard, and he can barely feel what he's doing down there. Somehow he has got his hand back in his boxers because cocks are good, both his and Dean's. Especially Dean's if he got to touch it. He frowns a little when his brain kicks in and asks where the hell that came from but he ignores it, he has better room now to move, which is good too. He tries a careful smile at Dean. "Help?"

Dean just stares at him. The look on his face is incredulous and Sam is so proud of himself for knowing that word right now. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate, difficult as it is what with the buzzing and that he is actually regaining feeling in his hard but uncooperative cock. He pushes his boxers down over his hips and holds his best buddy up, looking at it mournfully. "You got me into trouble, dude," he says to it

He looks up at Dean, doing his best to look pleading, "I dunno what to do with it, can barely feel it." And somewhere in the recesses of his brain he knows he shouldn't say that to Dean, but somehow he should. Has to do with the thing, it has. "Help," he says again. 

"I cannot fucking believe you!" The bed dips when Dean climbs on top of him, trapping the hand Sam has on his cock, pinning him to the bed. "You run off, get drunk, talk about boobs and now you want me to jerk you off? How much did you drink, man? You're totally out off it." He doesn't sound mad anymore, or disappointed. More…smirky. 

Sam thinks about it for moment and then nods happily, "Yeaaah, would you please?" He has no clue where all this comes from but it feels right, just as it did when he licked Dean's foot. He is allowed to. Something. They got something fixed earlier. Something important.

Dean's fist thumps down in the pillow next to his face. "I waited for you, you little shit. All hard and aching, waited for you, and you didn't come back." There is no real anger in his voice, Sam can tell. He sounds more longing and Sam pats himself on the back for being so receptive. But what had he been waiting for? Hard? 

It comes back like a cold shower, the thing he has to remember. His dick, that is the reason for whatever this is. Memory returns in flashes, knocking its way through the cotton. Sam and Dean being bored, picking a mock fight over the deck of cards. A little rough housing between brothers, rolling on the floor and Jesus Christ he had gotten hard. Dean pinned under him, pressing his thigh against the bulge in Sam's jeans and going so very, very still. 

"Sam?" Whispered in a tone Sam had never heard before and the pink tip of Dean's tongue licking his lips, licking Sam's lips. Sam licking back, kissing Dean. Moaning into his mouth that "godyeswantyou". Sam's brain fried when Dean answered with a groan and hands on Sam's ass, pressing closer, rubbing, rolling them over, Sam on his back. Dean wasn't supposed to know. This was Sam's secret, the only one who had ever known was the car. There was this brief moment of panic until Dean crashed his mouth against Sam's and rolled his hips just so. No panic, unless you count 'gonna come in my pants' frantic need as panic.

He hadn't. Dean had stopped. Like that, just stopped and looked at Sam like he was from Mars or so. "Sam," he had said again. "Sam, what are you doing?" And Sam hadn't had an answer for that. He had grabbed Dean by the neck and kissed him again instead. Kissing and rubbing and the frantic tugging of clothes and bumping arms and legs and noses together until Dean had stopped again and actually called time out.

"Gotta talk, Sam." And that had been so unexpected that Sam hadn't known what to say. He sat on the floor, blinking like an owl. The conversation had been short, Dean not being the one for talking in spite of instigating it when they could have been doing other stuff instead. It had been him who had kicked Sam out to go get a drink and think things over before they totally freaked, the both of them. But there didn't seem to be any freaking out waiting around the corner. Dean had been cool as ice, aside from the blush on his cheeks and the way he kept wriggling to make his jeans chafe less. Like he had been waiting for this to happen. Expecting it. 

Sam had trudged down to the bar on the corner, determined to have one beer and then go back and finish. This had been too long coming already so why wait? And then he had gotten himself plastered, almost fucked things up totally with that girl and the rest is history. A weird one but still. 

His head is clearing up a little and he can actually focus on Dean above him. Dean is smirking at him. "Waited?" Sam blurts out. Dean nods. 

"Yeah, waited. And you were out squeezing boobs all the while. Way to go, Sammy. Way to deal with dry humping me go squeezing boobs." 

"Are you mad at me?" He has to ask, the shouting earlier can be the sign of impending disaster. He gets no answer, only a hand grabbing his crotch and a strange cooing noise emerging from Dean.

"No," he says after a while and some serious crotch grabbing that has Sam whining like a bitch in heat. "I'm not mad. I'm horny. You licked my foot, man. And for the rest of it, no talking about it." Dean looks sternly at him. "There will be no chick moments or pouring our hearts out. Get with the programme. Clear?" He tilts his hips forward and grind his own hard cock down on Sam's and that is enough for Sam to promise all and everything Dean wants him to. 

He is still too drunk to manage anything complicated. But he has the feeling back down there, that is clear when Dean wraps his lips around the leaking head of Sam's dick. It doesn't take much, a few hard sucks and Sam is gone. The sight of Dean, mouth stretched open around him, lips wet and shiny, the feel of tongue slipping, rubbing around the head and the slurping noises is better than any skin flick he has ever seen or any blowjob he has ever gotten before. Hell, it's better than any he's had before. Then the top of his head blows off. 

Sam lays boneless on his back, staring at the ceiling. There is not one working muscle in his body anymore and damn if he cares about that. Dean is kissing him again, and he knows he should at least freak about that because eeew! He can taste himself on Dean. But he refuses to care about that too. He has just had an almost religious experience, being sucked off like that. Who would have known? That Dean could give head like that? Another good thing to add to the list. He has to tell Dean about the good things list tomorrow. If he remembers to, that is.


End file.
